J.D. Salinger - Catcher In The Rye

As some of you might already know, The Catcher In The Rye is one of my favourite books of all times. I've read it, and re-read it, and then read it again. At the age of fourteen, the first time I read it, I fell in love with Holden Caulfield. A decade later, I still love Holden Caulfield, and all his quirks, but I sympathise with him, and my heart goes out to him. At one point, I was reading this book every year - sometimes, even more often. When I started working, my ancient edition found a permanent spot on my desk, and it was just there for me to flip through, on days when things didn't make sense. Eventually, the book found its way back to my bookshelf, and I picked it out the other day, to find some solidarity, and to fall in love with the book and the author all over again.

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

That's the kind of author Mr. Salinger is to me - I wish he was a terrific friend of mine, for, despite the hypocrisy and despite the narcissism, I can just relate to his protagonist... and, despite popular opinion, that fans of the book are likely to be homicidal maniacs (John Lennon's assassin and Reagan's sniper were both obsessed with the book), well... I've never really felt the need to load up a shot gun, and go around shooting people who annoy me.

The thing about Holden Caulfield is, he's just trying to find his place in the world, where he's surrounded by phonies and pretentious folks. He's been expelled from school, for failing everything but English, and he doesn't really regret his expulsion. Instead, he leaves his school before his last date, and heads to New York, to spend a couple of days on his own, before he goes home to face the music, i.e. his parents. He rambles about life at the school, and then, the book continues with his adventures in New York, as he meets old friends and girlfriends, and reflects and introspects on his life.

He's surrounded by people who talk for the sake of talking, and who have the whole holier-than-thou attitude, which infuriates the living daylights out of him. God knows, I can relate.

He started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down on his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God - talk to Him and all - whenever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving in his car. That killed me. I can just see the big phony bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs.

While reading the book this time 'round, Caulfield came across as someone struggling to deal with the real world, and he seemed to be quite bipolar - with his emotions wildly swinging from ecstasy to despondence in seconds.

Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

There's an element of hypocrisy, as he rambles on and digresses excessively, but there's so much innocence and idealism and impulsiveness, that he still comes across as someone you'd want to know in real life. He seems to have no regard social protocol, and finds it tiresome, to the extent that he's compelled to make things up, as and when he feels like... some of which is quite politically incorrect.

Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.

I'm always saying "Glad to've met you" to somebody I'm not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.

But what really gets me - like, really gets me - about this book is his relationship with his sister, Phoebe; and of course, his sentiments about Allie, his dead brother. When he's asked by his roommate to write a descriptive essay for him on any subject, he chooses to write about Allie's baseball mitt, which has poems scribbled all over.

So what I did, I wrote about my brother Allie's baseball mitt. It was a very descriptive subject. It really was. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder's mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He's dead now. He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You'd have liked him. He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as intelligent. He was terrifically intelligent. His teachers were always writing letters to my mother, telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Allie in their class. And they weren't just shooting the crap. They really meant it. But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways. He never got mad at anybody. […] God, he was a nice kid, though. He used to laugh so hard at something he thought of at the dinner table that he just about fell off his chair.

How can something like that not choke you up? Or make you melt? Or not make you love the protagonist unconditionally? It's so simple, yet so profound. So plain, yet so beautiful. And then - how can you blame Caulfield for treating the world with such utter disdain, when the world has really not been good to him, and taken his younger brother away from him? I think it's easy to say, "get over it" or feel like slapping him to knock him into his senses, but when one feels like the world is unjust, they need time to grieve and come to terms with things at their own pace. Everyone handles things differently. Everyone's way of rationalising things vary.

And when eventually, the title of the book is explained, it's just... perfect.

"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like — "

"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."

"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."

She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through the rye." I didn't know it then, though.

"I thought it was 'If a body catch a body,'" I said. "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around — nobody big, I mean — except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff — I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.

There's something metaphoric about the above quote; it's not literal. It's an element of having the urge to save people before they go down the slippery slope - much like Holden's done, but there's been no one to catch him, or save him. And the vulnerability and utopian fantasy that comes to light here is just gut-wrenching really.

I can read this book over and over again, and it's one of those books I always turn to when things aren't looking up, or I'm ruing the state of affairs around me. And it always makes me feel better. And it always restores my faith in people, ironically enough. I don't think I can read this book too many times, for with each read, it just gets better and better.

Muriel Spark - The Driver's Seat

Oh, for such a small novella (tautology?), The Driver's Seat covers so much, with a dark plot, completely mental characters and just bizarreness all around! Lise, a thirty-something year old woman, is stuck in a dull office job for a decade or so, and she's about to embark on her first vacation. At the very outset, we discover that Lise is completely and utterly nuts. Like flips out in a shop, while looking for a dress to travel in, when the salesperson tells her it's made from stain-resistant material... so much so that she walks out of the store, as she is affronted by the insinuation that she does not eat properly. When she finally finds an outfit to wear ("a lemon-yellow top with a skirt patterned in bright V's of orange, mauve and blue.' and a coat over the top 'narrow stripes, red and white with a white collar") during her travels, the reader is left truly bewildered, by the sheer garishness of it, which she justifies easily.

The colours go together perfectly. People here in the North are ignorant of colours. Conservative; old-fashioned. If only you knew! These colours are a natural blend for me. Absolutely natural.

Okay, so possibly, Lise is on the verge of a breakdown of sorts, but she does seem to have an agenda. She insists she's meeting her boyfriend at the destination, but one wonders if she knows the man in question, for she does incessantly use the phrase, he's not my type while interacting with any of the strange men she encounters from the start of her break till... well... her death. Again, early on, Spark lets us know about the fate of her character. Not the who, not the why, just the what.

She will be found tomorrow morning dead from multiple stab-wounds, her wrists bound with a silk scarf and her ankles bound with a man’s necktie, in the grounds of an empty villa, in a park of the foreign city to which she is travelling on the flight now boarding at Gate 14.

Lise's behaviour becomes increasingly erratic as the novella progresses. She lies glibly, steals a car, and just seems to have lost all regard for any semblance of normality. Everything as per her convenience. Everything on her terms. Bizarre, uncomfortable, gripping.

This is the third book by Muriel Spark that I have read, and it couldn't be more different than the other two. It's significantly darker, to begin with, and suspenseful. The characters are just - wow - I really hope I never have to interact with people like them! Honestly! And despite it being a mere hundred-odd pages, Spark covers a lot of ground, and the ending just fits perfectly. Almost as though everything makes perfect sense.

Sarah Winman - When God Was A Rabbit

What an amazing name for a book! That was the first thought that came to me when I saw this book at Waterstones. The gist sounded promising enough, and you've got to give a book with such a title a chance. And so I did. The initial chapters are indeed promising. However, as you keep turning the pages, it just keeps going downhill. And then you force yourself to finish it, and are left wondering.... why?!

Or well, that was my experience. The book spans about forty years, from 1968 when Elly (the narrator) was born in Essex to 9/11 and beyond. We meet Elly's brother, Joe; her parents; her lesbian aunt; Jenny Penny, her best friend and finally, Charlie - Joe's lover. And so the drama starts.

By the age of ten, Elly's been sexually abused (or it was so indicated, but never outright said), she's seen her brother in a gay relationship, her father's sister talks openly of her sexuality, her father nearing a mental breakdown, moved to Cornwall far away from her best friend, and... well, she's still perfectly fine with everything and carries on as though everything's hunky dory.

So many of the themes needed to be explored in greater detail, but... nothing. It was shallow and the characters one-dimensional. Even the brother-sister relationship, which started so encouragingly just... faded into nothing. The rabbit that her brother gifted her on one of her birthdays, and they decided to call god (much to her teacher's chagrin and horror) was a redeeming part of the book, specially when Elly believed he was anthropomorphic. However, even that storyline just drifted into nothing.

Yet, so many events were covered: the death of Princess Diana, the assassination of Lennon, the assassination of JFK, 9/11, cancer, a friend in prison, a Getty-like kidnapping. So much, and yet so little. So much promise, and yet such little delivery.

I was honestly disappointed after finishing this book. At only 330 odd pages, it's not really a chunkster or anything, but after about p280, I just couldn't be bothered anymore. Didn't care about the characters, didn't want to care about them either. I forced myself to finish the book, and well... I did.

Have you read this book? Am I judging it way too harshly?

Alice Munro - Too Much Happiness

Too Much Happiness is a collection of short stories by internationally-acclaimed writer, Alice Munro. Not being a big fan of short stories, I always start a collection tentatively, not really expecting to enjoy it, but hoping to be pleasantly surprised. Munro's Runaway, for example, was fantastic. Too Much Happiness is a bit of an ironic name for this collection. While reading the first few stories, it felt like the stories kicked off right about the time the "happiness" ended in the protagonist's lives... when everything seemed to be hunky-dory, and then the world came crashing down. The stories, in their simplicity and their profundity, explored how the protagonists reacted, and gave a tremendous insight into the workings of a human mind.

Like I've said before, it's this simplicity that makes Munro's work absolutely breathtaking. There's no cliffhangers. There's no incredible twists. It's about the brittleness of human relationships - nothing out of ordinary, nothing spectacular, but just... something that's so universal that it touches the reader, and makes the reader root for the protagonists; empathise with them and sympathise with them. Reading Munro isn't an escape from reality. It's facing reality head-on.

She had always been such a reader – that was one reason, Rich had said, that she was the right woman for him; she could sit and let him alone[...]. She hadn’t been just a once-through reader, either. The Brothers Karamazov, The Mill on the Floss, The Wings of the Dove, The Magic Mountain, over and over. She would pick one up, planning to read that one special passage, and find herself unable to stop until the whole thing was redigested. She read modern fiction, too. Always fiction. She hated to hear the word “escape” used about fiction. She once might have argued, not just playfully, that it was real life that was the escape.

All that said though, I did find this collection a tad inferior to Runaway. A couple of the stories just didn't resonate with me, and I was left thinking, this is a tad pointless; or, I really don't get this... It seemed to unrealistic in the oh-so-realistic web of fiction that Munro spins. Fiction and Free Radicals are two of the stories. Even Dimensions, the first story, had me confused. It was tragic, but... I just couldn't relate to the main character.

On the other hand, stories like Face and Child's Play were mind-blowing though, and if nothing else, I can't recommend those two stories enough. It's stories like these that keep me going back to the world of short stories, and as soon as I had finished this anthology, I picked up yet another one of her books, simply because they are meant to be read, treasured and then re-read, just for the odd glimpses they give us into life, reality and everything else.

Anita Brookner - Hotel Du Lac

Belated birthday wishes to Anita Brookner, and a day late, but a happy International Anita Brookner Day to the rest of you. Some time back, I decided to re-read Anita Brookner's Booker-winning Hotel du Lac a few months back, as part of Sarah's Not A Rat's Chance In Hell, and last week seemed to be the right time to read it (what with 16th July being IABD, hosted by Thomas at my Porch and Savidge Reads).

I enjoyed Hotel du Lac the first time I read it, when I was still in my teens - the pathos, the despair, the richness of characters and the fact that it is set in Switzerland. Switzerland is, by far, my favourite country in the world, and I intend to live there at some point in my life. It just feels like... home.

The re-read, however, wasn't quite the same experience. I felt myself getting slightly more frustrated with Edith's character, and her complete lack of proactivity. It was almost like she was resigned to her fate, and was letting life pass her by; letting other people pull her strings.

Edith, an established writer, has been exiled to a hotel by Lake Geneva. Her friends have advised her to “disappear for a decent length of time and come back older, wiser and properly sorry,” for an act that she has committed, albeit it isn't quite clear what that act is, in the opening pages of the book. In the hotel, she meets a myriad of characters, each seeking a break from reality, and as she gets to know them better, we (as readers) get to know our protagonist better as well.

What it had to offer was a mild form of sanctuary, an assurance of privacy, and the protection and the discretion that attach themselves to blamelessness.

Edith is in love with David, a married man, but her affair with him is not the reason behind this exile. And, it's not her absolution. She writes letters to David regularly, and yearns for his presence, which doesn't seem forthcoming. She attempts to return to her writing in the hotel, but the characters that surround her distract her - mostly, the women, but there is the one man who catches her eye? Or, does she catch his eye?

The women in the hotel, which is indeed very selective of its guests, include the extravagant superficial Puseys whose interests most involve shopping and living an expensive lifestyle; Monica, who seems enviously condescending of the Puseys, as she spends her days sharing coffee, ice-cream and cakes with her dog; and Madame De Bonneuil, an old lady, who's been abandoned by her son after his marriage. Then there's Mr. Neville, a self-proclaimed romantic who thinks he's good for Edith...

A lot of the book focuses on women, and how their stature evolves with age and marriage; the importance of marriage and of having the significant other. Of course, this is predominantly due to the time in which the book was set - possibly the 70s - but subjecting all women to such... banality... was what got me slightly annoyed. A woman's place in society should be incidental to her marriage, not a result of it - that's my verdict, but then again, I live in the twenty-first century, so it is easy for me to say that.

The company of their own sex, Edith reflected, was what drove many women into marriage.

Brookner does pull out a couple of good twists though, which almost saves Edith's character, for she does come across as a passenger in her own life, not an active participant - definitely not the driver. It was well-written and slightly humorous, but, despite being under two hundred pages, oh-so-slow, that it almost feels like a book you want to curl up with, a glass of red wine in one hand, and the Moonlight Sonata playing on the stereo.

Thought I'd share some gorgeous pictures of places that have been mentioned in this book as well... it really is a place I would recommend to go to, to get some respite from the world.

Oh, and do let me know which Brookner should I read next? Just go chronologically, or... which are your favourites?

Colum McCann - Let The Great World Spin

New York, 1974. The magnificent twin towers are unveiled to the world, and the consensus is that they are ugly compared to the splendid sky-scrapers that grace the New York skyline (the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Rockefeller Centre etc). But, a marvelous feat from an athlete, Philippe Petit, almost changes the perception. Petit walked across a tightrope between the towers - he danced, he entertained, he wowed, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly, as the New Yorkers below looked up in awe, wondering if the man dancing with the clouds was suicidal, crazy, or if he had some perfectly legitimate reason to be doing what he was. After all, it’s not often, you see someone dancing with the clouds.

Every now and then the city shook its soul out. It assailed you with an image, or a day, or a crime, or a terror, or a beauty so difficult to wrap your mind around that you had to shake your head in disbelief.

In McCann’s award-winning Let The Great World Spin, on the day Petit takes on the skyline, lives of various New Yorkers intersect. Almost a six-degrees-of-separation kind-of premise, the chapters tell the stories - some in first person, some in third person - of these New Yorkers. Amidst other things, love and loss bring them together. Some live in South Bronx, others in Park Avenue; some are prostitutes, others judges; some have lost one son to the ‘Nam war, some three; some are escaping their drug-addled past only to confront yet another battle, and some are looking for a new future. But - the nameless figure in the sky (in McCann’s book, Petit remains an un-named person; his performance a mere backdrop.), and grief bring them together.

The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward.

The book starts slowly with an introduction to two Irish brothers, who have immigrated to New York as adults - Corrigan, a radical monk living amidst the prostitutes and pimps in the Bronx, and Ciaran, aimlessly trying to find his place in life. The next chapter cuts to Claire, living in Park Avenue, mourning the loss of her son in Vietnam. A group of other mothers who lost their sons will be arriving at her penthouse apartment later in the day, so as to find comfort in each other... but, when people come from totally different walks of life, there is more that divides them than what brings them closer. And then there’s the next story: an artist in her twenties, with a history of drug abuse (now cleaned up), is in the passenger seat during a fatal hit-and-run accident - an incident that is bound to ensure that her life will change forever. And then - then we go back to the beginning, where Tillie, a thirty-eight year old prostitute recounts her life’s story, while at court: slightly hackneyed, quite unsurprising, marginally apologetic. Jazz, her daughter, is a prostitute as well, and while Tillie doesn’t make any excuses, there is a tinge of contriteness to her recap. All this against the historical event of the man on the wire.

It was America, after all. The sort of place where you should be allowed to walk as high as you wanted.

The emotional aspect of this book is what makes it so riveting. Claire’s hesitance and tentativeness, Ciaran being overtly protective of his magnanimous brother, Tillie’s raw honesty... how different people cope with grief, and how they try to fathom the crazy world around them. It’s a novel of massive scope, heartbreaking but not depressing... hinting that there is light at the end of the tunnel, and eventually, hope is not in vain.
The diversity of characters is incredible, and one can’t help but cheer on all the primary characters, although... some of the backup characters (including some of the mothers in Claire’s support group) - the less said, the better. It’s so real, so... non-fictional. The irony, of course, is, the one event that seems fictional (i.e. the grand walk across the towers) is what is non-fictional.

In the wake of 9/11, the significance of this walk seems so much greater. Everyone stood up and took notice of this marvelous feat, and in spite of all the grief in the world, on that fateful day, Petit’s act was what was on everyone’s mind, and they all came together to witness that... and then there was 9/11, which, for completely different reasons, brought the city together again, and showed just how resilient, brave, strong and heroic the people are - in spite of the horrors that life brings in its wake.

Erin @ ErinReads has scheduled this as her Reading Buddies read for the month of July. Pop over to see more thoughts and discussions on this book, for I really don't think my post has done an incredible book much justice.

Téa Obreht - The Tiger's Wife

Téa Obreht, at the age of twenty-five, won the Orange Prize for her debut novel, The Tiger's Wife, which was given to me as a birthday present on my twenty-sixth birthday. In the blogging universe, the opinions on the book were widely divided, and I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

Almost immediately, I was struck by how direct and wonderful the writing is - it's emotive without being sensational, and it's beautiful without being hyperbolic.

Set against the backdrop of the Balkan civil wars, Natalia, the narrator traces back to her childhood and recalls the stories her grandfather told her, after she finds out about his death in a strange city from her grandmother. He had told the family that he was going to visit Natalia, but... that was not the case.

As Natalia embarks on a journey to figure out who her grandfather was, she realises that there are two stories - two legends, if you like - which sum up her grandfather's life.

Everything necessary to understand my grandfather lies between two stories: the story of the tiger’s wife, and the story of the deathless man. These stories run like secret rivers through all the other stories of his life – of my grandfather’s days in the army; his great love for my grandmother; the years he spent as a surgeon and a tyrant of the University. One, which I learned after his death, is the story of how my grandfather became a man; the other, which he told to me, is of how he became a child again.

Her grandfather was an avid animal lover, with a special place in his heart for tigers, and he oft' took Natalia to see the tigers at the local zoo, before war erupted and the zoo was forced to shut down, resulting in a strain in the relationship between the two - a strain that they conquered with time. I found myself completely floored by some of the thoughts put forward by Natalia's grandfather, who, despite being the secondary character, took centerstage.

"You must understand, this is one of those moments."

"What moments?"

"One of those moments you keep to yourself," he said.

"What do you mean?" I said. "Why?"

"We're in a war," he said. "The story of this war -- dates, names, who started it, why -- that belongs to everyone. Not just the people involved in it, but the people who write newspapers, politicians thousands of miles away, people who've never even been here or heard of it before . But something like this -- this is yours. It belongs only to you. And me. Only to us."

The multiple narratives that transpire - the story of the deathless man, the story of the tiger's wife, the present-day mission that Natalia is on (to help young children at an orphanage across the border) and the story of her grandfather's life - on her quest are handled effortlessly and had me gripped throughout. Perhaps some of the stories were fictional fables, perhaps some were plain superstitions. Indeed, some were not even believable, but all of that took a backseat while I read the legends and tried to work out how they all fit together.

While the relationship between the grandfather and granddaughter was the essence of the book, what had me captivated was the awe and reverence that the scenes about the tiger invoked. Tigers are one of my favourite animals - they are definitely the most regal, and command all the respect in the world. However, to be completely honest, I've never once spared a thought to how wars affect animals.

The tiger did not know that they were bombs. He did not know anything beyond the hiss and screech of the fighters passing overhead, missiles falling, the sound of bears bellowing in another part of the fortress, the sudden silence of birds. There was smoke and terrible warmth, a gray sun rising and falling in what seemed like a matter of minutes, and the tiger, frenzied, dry-tongued, ran back and forth across the span of the rusted bars, lowing like an ox. He was alone and hungry, and that hunger, coupled with the thunderous noise of bombardment, had burned in him a kind of awareness of his own death, an imminent and innate knowledge he could neither dismiss nor succumb to. He did not know what to do with it. His water had dried up, and he rolled and rolled in the stone bed of his trough, in the uneaten bones lying in a corner of the cage, making that long sad sound that tigers make.

I loved this book, and would recommend it greatly... and I look forward to Obreht's next book.

Sebastian Faulks - A Week In December

Set in London, against the backdrop of the subprime crisis and 7/7, Faulks' A Week In December takes place in the week leading up to Christmas in 2007. It's my first foray into the literary world created by Faulks, and I come out the other side marginally ambivalent. The book follows one week in the life of a myriad of characters: a hedge-fund manager and a porn star, a footballer playing in a top-four club and a jihadist, a tube driver and a lawyer, and... well, there are many characters.

The scene is set with Sophie Topping, the wife of a recently elected Tory MP, contemplating the invitation list for a dinner she is hosting in honour of her husband winning a by-election. This contemplation is merely an effective plot device to introduce some of the characters, as the author lists them out in a bullet-form. Their relatives and friends make up the rest of the cast, with two villainous personalities getting the star-billing. And, the book screams London, so much so that it probably is one of the more important characters of the book - it puts everything in perspective, and it brings everyone together.

The question though is, what's so special about characters that this book attempts to bring together? What makes them click? What sets them apart? And, the resonating answer is - nothing. The characters are flat, bordering on stereotypically boring, and the events range from unbelievable to are you kidding me? For example, an uneducated Asian pickle manufacturer is about to receive an OBE, and feels that he is inadequate to meet the Queen, lest the Queen would want to discuss literature, so, he hires a book reviewer to bring him up to speed on literature. Then, there's the tube rider, who lives life to the fullest in the alternate reality internet world, Parallax, neglecting reality. And the lonely alcoholic-loving wife of a rich banker, whose teenage son is enjoying skunk while watching a reality TV show called It's Madness (based on Big Brother?). Oh, and the jihadists communicate with one another using a porn site, by encrypting their messages in one of the images - the model on the image unsurprisingly makes a real appearance in the book.

That said, at times I thought that Faulks really enjoyed writing the book, with present-day pop-culture references being thrown around, subtly. Subtle enough so that it's not in your face, but once you notice it, you appreciate it. For example, Girls From Behind is a popular girl band, and there's a reference to Lemon Brothers - an obvious nod to Lehman Brothers. Social networks play a role too, with YourPlace being the chosen website - not sure if that's meant to be Facebook or MySpace. And then of course, there is Pizza Palace and Orlando (which I believe is a reference to the girly dive-prone footballer, Cristiano Ronaldo). Some of the references do come across as a tad forced, but nonetheless, all things considered, it makes the book feel very 2007.

While the subtlety was appreciated, the narration of the story left much to be desired. A lot of research has gone into the book, and a couple of the story-lines had me quite curious, but the "telling" of the story came across as forced, and the way events transpired left me confused and unsure...

* START SPOILER ALERT *

In the end, the quasi-jihadist who goes through all the trouble to procure the raw materials to make multiple bombs to blow up a hospital in London redeems himself by dropping the bag of detonators in the Thames, whereas the banker, Veales, is shown as the true force of evil. The way he manipulates the markets in his favour, and almost single-handedly causes the collapse of one of the national banks is shocking - and in light of the subprime crisis, that's probably the reaction Faulks was going for. Wealth and riches are his only interests, while his wife, children, TV, socialising and sports take a back seat.

How much does Faulks hate the bankers? How heartless does he think it is? It almost seemed like he had a personal vendetta that he wanted to settle, and he used this book as the medium. We live in a world of shades of grey, but Faulks managed to create a fairly black and white world, and while I find it hard to sympathise with banks whose greed led to the global economic crisis in the first place, I also feel as though this book is looking at the industry from an extremely myopic point of view. It's inviting the readers to hate the industry, it's typecasting bankers into one fairly unforgiving category... whereas... whereas, a person willing to create a pure Islamic world manages to redeem himself with no regrets or repercussions. It's baffling, really.

The last line of the book further pushes the point: "As he stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out over the sleeping city, over its darkened wheels and spires and domes, Veals laughed."

Instantly, my thoughts went to The Fountainhead, which starts, "Howard Roark laughed." Roark is the epitome of all things pure and unadulterated, the un-mercenary, if you like. Yes, this could be purely coincidental, and unrelated, but it was almost like Veals was offsetting the righteous and oh-so-irreproachable Roark.

{the below extract is from the first page of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead}

He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays.

The lake below was only a thin steel ring that cut the rocks in half. The rocks went on into the depth, unchanged. They began and ended in the sky. So that the world seemed suspended in space, an island floating on nothing, anchored to the feet of the man on the cliff.

[...] He laughed at the thing which had happened to him that morning and at the things which now lay ahead.

He knew that the days ahead would be difficult. There were questions to be faced and a plan of action to be prepared. He knew that he should think about it. He knew also that he would not think, because everything was clear to him already, because the plan had been set long ago, and because he wanted to laugh.

* END SPOILER ALERT *

It wasn't a comfortable read, by any stretch of the imagination, for there was no middle ground. Everyone and everything was over the top. The characters were dislikable, and even if this was all in the name of satire, one's got to wonder why the satire makes everything seem so bleak? In the twenty-first century, are we so doomed?

One of the reviews at the back of my copy reads:

The 19th century gave us Thackeray's Vanity Fair, Dickens's Our Mutual Friend and Trollope's The Way We Live Now; the 21st century has given us Sebastian Faulks's A Week In December.

If I may be so bold to say that the above statement is overtly generous, I would be understating the reality, and I make that comment despite never reading anything by Trollope. I want to read more by Faulks for I don't think this was anything close to his best, but I don't know where to start? Birdsong? Engleby? Human Traces? Or...? What would you recommend?

Gabriel García Márquez - Of Love And Other Demons

Last year, I mentioned how I'm trying to read one book by Gabriel García Márquez every year. That was a resolution I made on reading my first novel by the Nobel Prize laureate (One Hundred Years of Solitude), but now - now, I'm thinking, why shouldn't I read them back-to-back? That gives me ample time to go back and enjoy each of his books again, and again, and - you get the idea, right? This novella re-affirms the conclusion I reached. At only 160 pages, it's a fairly quick read, but I already feel like re-reading it, and losing myself in the wondrous world so skillfully created by Márquez.

Set in Latin America in the eighteenth century, this bleak story is about a twelve year old, Sierva Maria, who is brought up by the slaves in her parents' estate. She imbibes the cultures, languages and traditions of the slaves, and is closer to them than to her own parents who have little, if any, time for her. Subsequently, she's also prone to fabricating stories and exaggerating the truth, as per her convenience - sometimes, for no rhyme or reason ("She wouldn't tell the truth even by mistake").

When she is bitten by a rabid dog, despite not showing any signs of hydrophobia, people assume that she's either rabid, or possessed by a demon.This changes her father's attitude towards her, as he showers her with more love and affection, and tries to save her, but is forced to listen to the bishop, who believes that an exorcism is to be performed to cleanse the girl, despite the famous Jewish physician, Abrenuncio, dismissing the possibility of any such possession. In a world of wild beliefs and crazy superstitions, Abrenuncio is one of the few pragmatic minds, but the Bishop's belief that rabies is one of the forms the demon can adopt to enter the human body is popularly accepted.

Subsequently, Sierva Maria is incarcerated to the convent at St. Clara, where the Cayetano Delaura, the chief exorcist, is assigned to her. Delaura, almost typically, falls in love with the girl, and tries to figure out a way to save her life, with the help of Abrenuncio. However, because the girl's ways is so different from what they accept, it's almost impossible to cast the accusations aside. Her familiarity with the slave traditions, and the ease with which she speaks their languages and blends in with them is essentially why no one believes that she is perfectly unblemished, despite the bite.

Delaura, an extremely religious person, and the Bishop's trusted subordinate, tries sticking up for the girl, as love for the girl thirty years his junior, possesses him, but in a world where superstitions are predominant and rational reasoning dismissed, he is fighting a lost battle.

What are the demons though? Rabies? Traditions? Superstitions? Clashing of cultures - the Christians and the slaves? Or, love? And how does one overcome these demons? More importantly, can they be overcome?

People are desperate to cling on to the supernatural in order to explain some of the calamities that occur in their lives, at the expense of ignoring completely rational explanations. Is it that they don't know better, or that they choose not to know better? In this incredibly dark and gloomy book, Marquez again creates a world that shows the class divide and how the religious customs take precedence over all else. Despite this being a comparatively short read, the depth of the story and the emotions it evokes linger on long after you put the book back on the shelf.

Have you read anything by this incredibly talented Nobel Laureate? Which book is your favourite?

David Mitchell - Ghostwritten

Ghostwritten is David Mitchell's first novel, and on finishing it, I've now read all his works, which pleases me greatly. Of course, the fact that this is a tremendous debut adds to the pleasure, albeit, I really do wish there was another Mitchell on my shelf, just waiting to be read. The sub-title of the book reads, "a novel in nine parts," and so it is. It could easily a collection of nine short stories, each told in first person by a different narrator, who seemingly have nothing to do with the previous narrator(s). However, six degrees of separation (or fewer) bind the characters together, through time and different geographical locations. The link between the characters isn't blatantly evident though, as one might come to expect from Mitchell, and at times, it's confusing as to how the characters come together, and to figure out if there is any kind of causal sequence. That said, one can't help but anticipate the revelation of the link, and then deliberate over it for a bit, which in turn means that one can't help but read the book, scrutinising almost every word to see where the link lies.

{note: there are some spoilers below, but I have tried to keep them to the minimum}

The first story, Okinawa, is inspired by the Sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway - an act of domestic terrorism. Quasar, a terrorist, is on the run after wreaking havoc on a train, as he imagines a world without the "unclean" - forgive the comparison, but similar to the way some pure-bloods (and Voldemort and his Death Eaters) fell about mud-bloods in Harry Potter. Quasar believes he can communicate with the leader of his cult telepathically, and while he hides out in Okianawa, waiting for things to quieten down, he gets the news that His Serendipity has been captured. While the locals rejoice, Quasar tries to get in touch with the powers that be, to figure out the next course of action. The password to get in touch with the powers that be is simply, the dog needs to be fed.

Cue the second story, and the shift in location to Tokyo, where a teenager works in a record store, specialising in jazz. One day, a group of girls enter the store, and he's instantly attracted to one of them, but they leave the store, and he is resigned to never meeting her again. A few days later, while he's closing up the store, he hears the telephone ring, and being conscientious, goes in to answer the phone. The voice at the other end simply says, it's Quasar. The dog needs to be fed. As fate has it, this slight delay leads to him meeting the girl again, and they immediately hit it off. End of the second story. Yes, the links are that random.

“The last of the cherry blossom. On the tree, it turns ever more perfect. And when it’s perfect, it falls. And then of course once it hits the ground it gets all mushed up. So it’s only absolutely perfect when it’s falling through the air, this way and that, for the briefest time … I think that only we Japanese can really understand that, don’t you?”

{end of spoilers}

Through the rest of the stories, the reader meets the Russian mafia, and a ghost that transfers from being to being by touch; a physicist involved with the Pentagon and a night-time DJ in New York; a tea shack owner at the Holy Mountain who laments as to why women are always the ones who have to clean up, and a drummer/writer in London who also works as a ghostwriter to pay the bills.

I couldn’t get to sleep afterwards, worrying about the possible endings of the stories that had been started. Maybe that’s why I’m a ghostwriter. The endings have nothing to do with me.

You know the real drag about being a ghostwriter? You never get to write anything that beautiful. And even if you did, nobody would ever believe it was you.

We're all ghostwriters, my friend. And it's not just our memories. Our actions too. We all think we're in control of our lives, but they're really pre-ghostwritten by forces around us.

The above quotes illustrate another prominent aspect of the book: the role of fate, of chance, of the chain-reaction. The sheer randomness of the stories, and the way the characters inter-connect is pivotal to the novel, and keeps the reader completely engrossed. Of course, the other side is, by the time the reader actually starts relating to the narrator or nodding in agreement with their sentiments, a new narrator is introduced and the old narrator a thing of the past.

And then there's sneaky little political comments just dropped, making the book a lot more relevant in today's day and age. The below snippet, for example, reminds me of the preamble to Iraq.

"Have you noticed," said John, "how countries call theirs 'sovereign nuclear deterrents,' but call the other countries' ones 'weapons of mass destruction'?"

It's an overtly ambitious work, with some fairly profound statements, that had me admiring the debut from the get-go. It was thought-provoking and massive - perhaps not as demanding as Cloud Atlas, but a hell of a ride, nonetheless, and one couldn't help but marvel at how it all unraveled.

Integrity is a bugger, it really is. Lying can get you into difficulties, but to wind up in the crappers try telling nothing but the truth.

Of course, the other impressive thing was, how all nine narrators found a unique voice in the novel, totally disconnected from the previous narrator, similar to Cloud Atlas. Speaking of his most acclaimed book so far, two characters from Cloud Atlas also made an appearance in this book: Tim Cavendish and Luisa Rey - their occupations remain the same across the books, i.e. publisher and writer respectively. Not only that, but a character with a comet-shaped birthmark has a cameo role to play as well. I have to say, love finding old friends in new books!

Personally speaking, my primary complaint with the novel was that I didn't get a sense of closure or fulfilment on finishing the book. I enjoyed it, but I just didn't get the ending. I re-read the last "story" thrice, but to not much avail. I believe this book would benefit from a re-read, as there might have been a multitude of subtle hints that I missed - inadvertently.

Have you read David Mitchell's debut novel? Or, anything by him? What's your favourite? My unequivocal pick would be Number9Dream, but that might have something to do with it being the first Mitchell I read. I almost feel as though I have to re-read all his works in the order of writing, to truly appreciate the erratic wondrous world of fiction he has created.

Chuck Palahniuk - Diary

I hadn't read anything by Palahniuk until I read this little gem. I still recall purchasing this book at Waterstones: initially, the plan was to pick up Fight Club, as that's the book I really wanted to read, but this book grabbed my eye, and on a whim, I picked it up instead. Anyway, point being, I really didn't know what to expect, and while, at some level, I was prepared for the roller-coaster ride, it did still leave be flabbergasted at times.

Everything is a self-portrait. Everything is a diary.

Diary is the coma diary kept by Misty Wilmot née Kleinman, a once-aspiring artist, after her husband, Peter, attempts killing himself. Calling herself the queen of the f***ing slaves numerous times through the book, as she contemplates her life: white trash to living in a nouveau-riche island, working as a waitress, after she had promised herself she wouldn't end up the same way as her mother. The checklist includes: big houses, church wedding, picnics on the beach. So, when Peter proposes, and takes her home to the incredibly picturesque Waytansea Island (should it be read wait-and-see?), she feels as though all her dreams have come true - this is the  America she has dreamed of, through the medium of her paintings. But now, here she is, fueling up on alcohol and painkillers, writing a coma diary, battling various things...

...and who is to blame for all of this? Of course, it's Peter, her husband, who has abandoned her and her daughter with his suicide attempt. But that's not the worst of it. Peter's clients start calling up poor white trash Misty Marie, complaining that parts of their houses have gone a-missing: kitchens, linen closets, the like. Peter has walled them off, and when they bring the walls down, they find cryptic horrifying messages scrolled on the walls, under the tables.

"...set foot on the island and you will die..." the words said. "...run as fast as you can from this place. They will kill all of God's children if it means saving their own..."

And to make it worse, there are messages which disparages Misty, the woman he had promised to make a successful rich artist in this pretentious island:

"...now I see my wife working at the Waytansea Hotel, cleaning rooms and turning into a fat f***ing slob in a pink plastic uniform..."

"...She comes home and her hands smell like the latex gloves she has to wear to pick up your used rubbers... her blonde hair's gone grey and smells like the shit she uses to scrub out your toilets when she crawls into bed next to me..."

All in plain sight - for everyone to see, for everyone to judge.

But things get even worse for Misty, as suddenly, her mother-in-law and daughter push her to re-discover the artist inside her, which will bring back the Wilmot fortune. And Misty bitterly philosophises on that as well, remembering her forgotten dreams.

Anytime some well-meaning person forces you to demonstrate you have no talent and rubs your nose in the fact you're a failure at the only dream you ever had, take another drink. That's the Misty Wilmot drinking game.

However, there is something depraved about this push to re-discover her art, the rationale behind which becomes clearer as the story (the diary, if you will) progresses. There will be many-a-twist along the way, and it really is difficult to stop reading for even a second, simply because it just keeps the reader guessing as to what is going on - and why.

The book is funny in parts, as well as philosophical, and while initially, I thought Misty was the master of her ill-fated destiny, as the book carried on, it was hard not to feel sorry for her, and the things she had to go through. The forthright way in which she writes her diary, with a tinge of self-deprecation as well as self-pity obviously helps. I also thought the weather forecast in almost each entry was a clever touch.

The weather today is increasing concern followed by full-blown dread.

The weather today is an increasing trend towards denial.

Just for the record, the weather today is calm and sunny, but the air is full of bullshit.

Just for the record, the weather today is bitter with occasional fits of jealous rage.

Just for the record, the weather today is partly suspicious with chances of betrayal.

The weather today is increasing concern followed by fullblown dread.

This is my first foray into the world of Palahniuk, but I definitely do want to read more of his works, and I guess Fight Club is the obvious next choice? Have you read anything by him? Is Fight Club the best one to read?

Cormac McCarthy - Child Of God

I loved The Road - in fact, it was one of my favourite books in 2008, and right after I finished it, I read No Country For Old Men, which I also enjoyed tremendously. So, I find it kind-of weird that I haven't read anything by Cormac McCarthy for over two years. I decided to read this on a thirteen hour long flight, and the one thing I realised was, of all things in the world, this definitely isn't a flight book! The one vague memory I have of this book is, back in 2007-08, a teacher was facing charges for giving this book to a ninth grader to read. The parents objected to the violence, profanity and sexual content in the book. It does make me wonder though, how would I react had I read this book some ten years earlier? At twenty-five, I found this book disturbing and haunting, graphic and overtly vivid, powerful and thought-provoking. At fifteen - well, maybe I was extremely naive for my age, but I reckon I would have been scandalised beyond belief.

Lester Ballard is an outcast in a small village in Tennessee - a tragic antihero, Ballard can almost be considered senile.

He is small, unclean, unshaven.  He moves in the dry chaff among the dust and slats of sunlight with a constrained truculence.  Saxon and Celtic bloods.  A child of God much like yourself perhaps.

It's the offhand "much like yourself" comment that grabbed me, mostly because it came across as though Ballard is the anti-thesis of most (if not all) of us. However, it also meant that I read most of the book, expecting and hoping the character would redeem himself, because, all and said and done, I couldn't help but pity him. Ironically, his personality and character should have evoked hatred and disgust, but that's the magic of McCarthy's writing.

Ballard's house is auctioned out, despite his protests, and he starts roaming the terrain, living in caves and shacks, with no friend to call his own, but a rifle. His existence regresses, as he moves from domicile to domicile, each slightly more beastly than its predecessor, and his actions are mindbogglingly unjustifiable. Necrophilia, buying clothes and underwear for the dead girls he drags and hides at his "home" and eventually resorting to killing couples and having sex with dead girls are just a small part of it. The book does get darker and more morbid, and as a reader, I was just left flabbergasted, as I struggled to figure out any psychological motivation behind these despicable deeds.  An absent mother and a father who hanged himself are not really justification enough - or, are they?

People ignoring him or treating him like he didn't exist or taking him for a ride are again not reasons enough - a fair few events from the past (which are re-iterated in the book) explain people's attitudes to him, but the quick degeneration of his already abject character beggars disbelief.

McCarthy's third book is provocative (in more ways than one), but beautifully written. The distant tone of the third person narrator who tells the story is coupled with accounts of Ballard from people who have known him from his childhood. The people relate tales of his lamentable way of life, and at each point, I thought that something would happen to make the ignominious Ballard come good.

He has this old cow to balk on him, couldn't get her to do nothin. He pushed and pulled and beat on her till she'd wore him out. He went and borry'd Squire Helton's tractor and went back over there and throwed a rope over the old cow's head and took off on the tractor hard as he could go. When it took up the slack it like to of jerked her head plumb off. Broke her neck and killed her where she stood.

In a way I've come to expect from McCarthy (despite the inadvertent two year McCarthy hiatus) the missing punctuation and the dialogue just add to the wow-factor of a book that is difficult to put down, for despite its depravity, I just couldn't avert my eyes, as I lost myself in the surreal twisted plot of this book.

Have you read any books by McCarthy? Which one would you recommend next? And, do you think his language (and missing punctuation) adds to the charm of his books, or would you prefer his books to be just a tad easier?